


beyond the blue line

by florulentae



Series: five for slashing [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Character Study, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Self-Discovery, Workplace Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22793395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florulentae/pseuds/florulentae
Summary: It takes Taeyong Lee three seasons to make a home out of Dallas.It takes John Suh only one to make a home right in Taeyong’s heart.
Relationships: Lee Taeyong/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: five for slashing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658182
Comments: 35
Kudos: 305





	beyond the blue line

**Author's Note:**

> *deep breath* this is probably the most self indulgent fic i’ve ever written in my life. who else takes two of their ults and writes them playing for their favorite hockey team? it's also the longest. whew 
> 
> a Huge thanks to everyone that has helped out over months i've spent writing this story. i wanted to take a moment though, to thank a couple of special people: emi, for being the person to encourage me to go for it, for being my sounding board, beta and perfect pair. jay, for her betaing and unconditional love. last but not least, to to we cry here bros for being the sweetest and most supportive bunch ♡ 
> 
> the notes at the end of the first chapter hold pictures/footage of the actual hockey players mentioned on this fic. the titles of each ~section come from various siken poems

## 01\. parentheses all clicking shut

Taeyong knows hockey.

This is a fact, not a choice.

He learned to skate shortly after he learned to speak English, fresh off an airplane and into a strange Toronto suburb that would soon become _home_ —or one of the iterations of it. It’s all he’s ever known—wearing maple leaf blue in his childhood, gearing up on Sundays at 8 a.m., waking up his parents only to cry when they reminded him that practice wasn’t until the afternoon.

It was all he was ever interested in knowing, really, ever since he was old enough to know what wanting something really meant. He remembers the first time his parents took him to practice and he sat in awe of people on the ice. He remembers the joy of banging his hands against the glass during warm-ups at the Air Canada Centre—back when it was still called the Air Canada Centre—until he was noticed.

From the moment he first climbed into one of those big laundry carts they used to haul around for the local rec league and asked one of the maintenance workers— _Scotty_ , he thinks—with the biggest toothless grin he could muster if he could _please_ push Taeyong down the big cement ramp behind the locker room. When Scotty did, he felt like he was flying. The walls became blurs. He had no control over where the cart would go—until it eventually crashed, sending him flying backwards, delighted.

(There was _always_ a crash—this might as well be the metaphorical crash of _his_ cart.)

Taeyong is disciplined.

Fact, not choice.

He was always too small, too skinny, too late to catch up with his peers. But what he lacked in size he made up in blood, sweat and tears; in 5 a.m. skates with his dad watching, in black eyes and broken sticks. His parents’ basement bears testament to the hours he spent down there shooting at the beat up washing machine—the jagged marks in his own flesh bear testament, too.

Taeyong sticks to hockey rules.

A choice, not a fact.

The rules of the ice are meant to be bent to fit the player, he thinks, and while he tries to keep his game clean and use his abilities rather than his strength, sometimes those things seem to get away. He chooses to break them, sometimes.

The rules off the ice, though—the ones in the locker room. Those are an entirely different story. He knows the number one unspoken rule and he chooses to follow through with it every single time, sticks to it with almost religious fervor: just _don’t_ stare. You don’t _want_ to stare.

Taeyong sticks to the hockey rules that seem to matter—a choice.

The only one that’s right to make.

* * *

He _really_ doesn’t mean for any of this to happen.

Training camp is—it’s training camp. It feels good to be back, even if the first days are absolutely brutal, and seeing the guys is always fun. Even if Dallas is not where he’d imagined he’d be playing—his dreams were blue and white for so long, and the disappointment of his home team passing up on him in the draft was almost as big as his desire to _prove them wrong_ —there’s nowhere he’d rather be right now.

It’s his third year with the team, and the fact that the not-so-old guard has taken him in under their Canadian wings (there _really_ is a fucking overpopulation of Canadian hockey players in the city) and roped him into some golf games (that he, frankly, sucked at. He spent most of his time at the course making fun of Jamie’s swing despite not being able to hit a ball) felt _really_ fucking good. Like he finally belonged.

Like the Victory Green was starting to grow under his skin.

It was all going too perfectly. He should have _known_.

 _It’s all John Suh’s fault_ , Taeyong thinks, a little dazed and a whole lot confused.

John Suh, Chicago’s golden boy, NTDP’s star, the fourth overall pick of Taeyong’s draft class. John Suh, America’s hockey miracle boy that went from star to crash in just one season in Arizona, a healthy scratch sent to the farm team then brought back up to the Coyotes to be a healthy scratch _once again_ for no apparent reason. John Suh, the new Dallas Star, coming in to the team from a deal so bad that Taeyong is sure Arizona will regret it for _decades._

Out of all the new blood that arrived after a frankly grueling trade and draft season, Johnny is the one that Taeyong has found himself talking to the most, finding it incredibly easy to make him smile and smile at him in turn. Maybe it’s their shared background, the unique experience of growing up so far away from what once used to be _home_ —so far away from each other and yet so close in experiences, in memories. Maybe it’s the fact that they are a part of the very select and tiny group of Asian players in the league. Maybe it’s the way his hockey is, objectively, really fucking sexy. Which, you know—it’s a great thing. It’s _exactly_ what they need. He’s been impressing the coaching staff, or at least it seems that way to Taeyong, so it’s almost a given that he’ll make the team permanently.

That’s not the problem. The problem is, well—the extremely minuscule detail of Taeyong finding himself, for lack of a better word, in _awe_ of Johnny. It catches him off guard and he can’t exactly pinpoint why it happens in the first place. He has this...magnetic pull to him and Taeyong has been pulled into his very particular orbit.

And today—today Johnny’s been hanging out in the locker room clad in only his towel for what feels like an _eternity_ , laughing as he talks with Klinger and Esa about something Taeyong can’t really hear over whoever is playing music that sounds like a cross between country western and Russian rap.

His back is in Taeyong’s direct line of sight as he dresses, close enough that Taeyong can see his still-damp skin glistening under the harsh white lights. It’s not Taeyong’s fault that Johnny’s shoulders are just—on the right side of impressive, alright? Broad enough that they look as if they could bear the weight of the team, maybe even of the world. Objectively speaking, the muscles on his back are eye-catching, too: subtle but toned in a way that suggests strength, in a way that suggests power; like he could pin anyone anywhere with little to no trouble; just like the smoothness of his tanned skin going down all the way to the paler stripe of skin Taeyong can see right above where Johnny’s towel dips dangerously low—

Taeyong blinks as a particular sort of panic lodges itself in the pit of his stomach, making him vaguely nauseous. He’s quick to finish gathering his shit and leave; to run, really, making up some excuse on the fly that he won’t remember later about needing to pick up his sister from the airport despite the fact that her plane won’t land for another five hours.

He comes back to himself inside his car, his hands gripping the steering wheel with more force than necessary considering the car is turned off in the middle of a packed parking lot.

He takes one, two, three, four, five deep breaths. In through his nose, then out, trying to get the drumming of his heart against his ribcage to return to some semblance of normalcy.

If there’s one thing Taeyong doesn’t need, not now, not _ever_ —it’s this.

* * *

Everyone has a story to tell.

Taeyong’s story is of hockey—of growing up in a rink and living, breathing it—but it’s also sacrifice: long days and nights, hearing for hours about the mistakes he made in the latest game rather than praise for what he did well. It’s a story of dreams coming true, of overcoming adversity and learning; of almost not making it into the draft, of Dallas taking a chance on him and shaping his future; of making a home in a place he never expected to end up; a story of girls, of their soft corners and how he hasn’t found the right one yet.

That’s the story everyone gets, the story Taeyong is used to telling.

The other story—the one of looking away, the story of locker rooms or late nights when he’s too drunk to even think straight, when he’s bold enough to risk one glance in a direction it should absolutely _not_ be going; of nights just like this one, spent staring at the blue tiles on the wall of his shower and scrubbing himself pink and raw because he feels all kinds of wrong and dirty, like everyone can see what he just did, like suddenly everyone will be able to look right through him and realize that _there’s just_ no way _he’s interested in the white picket fence, the wife and the two-and-a-half kids_.

This other story—it’s not supposed to be Taeyong’s story.

* * *

The thing is, Taeyong can’t really just say it’s only _eyes_ straying in the locker room once Johnny effectively makes the team, stacking assists and goals like he was made for it. He _really_ can’t write how his whole being reacts to Johnny as a one-off fluke on his otherwise perfectly performed hockey player persona.

Johnny seems larger than life with his hockey equipment half off, pulling Taeyong into his orbit with the way he jokes and laughs with the guys after a hard-fought win—the kind that leaves everyone battered and bruised, bone-deep tired yet exhilarated—or straightening his back after a tough loss, the broad expanse of his shoulders taunting Taeyong, _daring_ him to waste one more second, to get closer and see just how much weight they can bear.

If Johnny half-naked in the locker room is the actual problem, if it’s all a sin of the flesh—why the _fuck_ can a fully clothed Johnny Suh get under his skin and build a fucking _home_ there?

“Boys, we all know who the hat goes to this time!” Ben bellows as he approaches Taeyong’s stall and breaks him out of his reverie, holding in his hands the black cowboy hat with the Stars logo. They haven’t seen it much this season but that just makes tonight’s victory feel even _sweeter_. Taeyong can’t help but smile, a little embarrassed, as his teammates hoot and holler when Ben haphazardly dumps the hat onto his head, further messing up his already messy hair and saying, “I can’t believe you really tried to go for _Kesler_ , T.Y, you’re like— _tiny_.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Taeyong mumbles, ears a little red. Kesler is always someone he doesn’t want to deal with and this time he kept going after Johnny for some reason, spitting the same racist shit he's heard more than once—Taeyong doesn’t really remember. All he knows is that he saw red and checked the guy against the boards as hard as he could at every chance he could until Kesler got fed up and they ended up dropping the gloves in a pathetic fight that nonetheless was enough to rile the crowd up and earn him something of a nasty bruise on his cheekbone. He takes a moment to fix the hat to keep it from falling off and then says, louder, “Let’s make this happen tomorrow, too!”

“My _hero_ ,” Johnny swoons from the next stall, reaching sideways to grab at Taeyong, a display of taut muscles that leaves Taeyong’s mouth surprisingly dry. The feeling disappears as soon as he succeeds in placing his disgustingly sweaty hand—which he’s sure smells like a mixture of gloves and socks and _death_ —on Johnny’s face, just barely pushing him backwards. Johnny groans, swatting at Taeyong’s hand until he’s free from it, muttering something about _gross hockey players that have no manners_. Taeyong just laughs, calls him a big baby,, and allows himself to bask in the passing glory of it all.

“Maybe next time go for someone your own size!” Segs yells from the other side of the room. Taeyong flips him off without even checking if the camera or anyone from the press team is still hanging around. To his right, Johnny laughs again, and Taeyong feels something in his heart lift and soar.

* * *

Life becomes a flurry of unreliable movement, like it always does when it’s hockey season. It turns into that grueling back and forth that is simply frustrating: victories in the last possible second and losses that cut bone deep. Despite how Taeyong has grown to love the Stars, despite how he bleeds and bruises and fights for them, they just can’t seem to get their shit together, let alone have enough luck to get through the first month without a quarter of the team getting injured.

On the flipside—or downside, depending on whether it’s hockey-player-Taeyong or human-person-with-feelings-Taeyong speaking—Johnny turns out to be, to Taeyong’s utter dismay, a constant source of comfort. A little piece of _home_ _away from home_ even in the middle of Buffalo as they rest right after an early game, too tired to go out but not tired enough to go straight to bed, stuck in a hotel room in a city neither of them much cares to get to know.

The bathroom door opens, jolting Taeyong out of his reverie. He quickly re-focuses his eyes on the TV screen, doing what he thinks is a pretty good job at ignoring Johnny’s half-naked figure while Johnny shuffles around the other side of the room. Taeyong hears the mini-fridge door open and bottles rattle until Johnny finds whatever he’s looking for.

“You want some ice too?” Johnny’s voice asks over the noise of a possessed Clint Barton shooting someone with an arrow on-screen.

“Yes, _please_ ,” Taeyong says, fingers carefully lifting his shirt to gaze at the bruise that had bloomed on his skin during the break between the second and third period. He grimaces.The bruise on his side is turning a truly ugly shade of purple. Taeyong curses under his breath at the way it _aches_ when he carefully pokes it with his index finger.

Johnny whistles as he comes alongside Taeyong’s bed to pass him one of the cold compresses. He easily avoids the flailing leg Taeyong aims for Johnny’s chest. Taeyong lets his leg land where it lands sprawled across the bed, uncaring, and watches in wonder as Johnny notes, “they got you good,” his voice choked off like he’s having a hard time swallowing. Taeyong stares down at his bruise, hands gently skimming over it before he looks up at Johnny and shrugs, like _what-can-you-do_.

It’s not until now that Taeyong notices the way Johnny’s eyes shine, laser-focused on Taeyong’s sprawled figure. He supposes it must be the size of the bruise he’s earned tonight that got Johnny to react like that. All the same, he shifts his leg into a slightly more decent position.

“Go and lay down, _big boy_. It’s too early in the season for you to have trouble with your knee,” Taeyong says, gesturing to the other bed.

“Aw, he _cares_!” Johnny swoons, clutching his chest. Taeyong notices the subtle pink in Johnny’s cheeks and considers complaining about him using all of the warm water—but he _knows_ how that’ll end: with some roughhousing that Taeyong’s aching body doesn’t feel up to. He keeps quiet instead, waiting for Johnny to walk the three and a half steps to his bed and flop down on it, but Johnny makes no move to leave and _that_ has Taeyong’s heart hammering in double tempo. “What are you watching?” Johnny asks, eyeing the screen with interest.

“ _The Avengers_ ,” Taeyong replies, subtly crossing his fingers behind his back and praying for Johnny to hate superhero movies or find them _lame_ , literally _anything_ that will put them in a safer distance.

“Oh, move, move,” Johnny says instead, plopping down on the mostly unused side of Taeyong’s bed. “I fucking _love_ this movie!” he adds, and he sounds so excited that Taeyong’s resolution to kick him out of his bed by rambling about personal space and being sleepy disintegrates.

Because it’s obviously _too_ much for the Universe to let Taeyong enjoy peace and quiet for one night. Grumbling, he scoots over to the other side of the bed, allowing as much distance as he can between his body and Johnny’s.

He still gives Johnny one of the many pillows he’s resting on so Johnny can place it under his knee, but God, Taeyong hates every single second of it.

* * *

It’s right after another round of practice before two back-to-back road games (one of them in _Montreal_ , because of _course_ ) when things shift once again. And this time the blame—if you could call it _blame_ rather than empathy—is all on Taeyong.

“Are you still living in a _hotel_?” Taeyong’s brows furrow, back hitting the side of his stall as he stares up at the other man. His fingers are briefly frozen, holding the laces of one of his sneakers before he refocuses on tying them up.

“Uh, well—yeah?” Johnny says to his side, scratching the back of his neck, towel hung over his shoulders to prevent his wet hair from dripping onto his shirt. “The organization said they would pay for my housing until I found somewhere to actually stay but—I haven’t really gotten around to it,” Johnny says, like delivering an alibi for committing the crime of not settling down.

Taeyong thinks of the feeling of permanence that comes with leasing a place, how it makes everything too real—he thinks of Arizona, thinks about Johnny spending week in and week out between cities and road hotels and how he ended up getting sent off for pennies, and he feels something grow in his chest.

Taeyong blames _that_ for the choices he makes and refuses to think of everything else it entails as he opens his mouth to speak.

Now, you see, Taeyong has made countless dumb choices in his life.

Running face first into the rink’s borders when he was barely getting a grasp on his skating because he wanted to wave _hi_ to his mom and effectively losing one of his front teeth. Fighting Mitch Marner for the better part of his childhood, despite the other boy being three years his junior and them _literally_ living next to each other. Dyeing his hair blonde when he was fifteen on a dare and having to buzz most it off afterwards because of just how much the bleach had destroyed his hair—those were pretty far up there on the list.

This one, though, just takes the fucking _cake_. And he can’t even blame it on alcohol or teenage-induced stupidity.

"You could come and live with me, you know—I lived with Segs my first year here,” Taeyong starts, thinking back fondly to the mornings he’d wake up to three huge dogs trying to pile on top of him on Tyler’s command. “There's plenty of space, a nice pool, uh—the essentials," Taeyong rambles, internally cringing at the fact that he probably sounds like one of those tiny rich terrors he was forced to befriend growing up _and_ that they are well into November, which means literally _no one_ in their right mind would even think of using a pool.

“You sure about that?” Johnny asks, hesitation written in his face but eyes bright with something Taeyong can’t really name; something else he doesn’t want to think about.

 _Absolutely not_ , the voice in the back of his head screams. "Of course," Taeyong’s treacherous mouth says instead. "Can't have you living in a hotel for so long, not eating anything made in like, an actual kitchen by someone who knows what to feed a hockey player,” Taeyong rambles on, praying to whoever is up there for Johnny to turn his offer down and for Taeyong to feel relief instead of disappointment when it happens.

“You're gonna cook for me?" Johnny asks, instead of the polite _oh I wouldn’t want to impose,_ or _I’m already looking for an apartment_ that Taeyong thought he would get. Johnny’s eyes sparkle with evident mirth at the prospect of Taeyong cooking _for_ him and something burns low in the pit of Taeyong’s stomach, burns pink at the tips of his ears.

“Not if you act like that,” Taeyong replies, extending his leg and shoving his sockless foot into Johnny’s bare thigh, amused at the grimace he receives for a brief moment before Johnny’s face changes. Taeyong quickly pulls his foot back, regardless, trying to avoid any kind of retribution.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Johnny declares, face serious as he holds three fingers up. Droplets of water slowly drip from his hair onto his face but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s turned his body so that he can face Taeyong better and his eyes hold promises unfitting for the offer of a spare bedroom in return for, like, money for utilities. “Scout’s honor,” he adds, nodding seriously.

Taeyong is ninety percent sure _that_ is not the actual salute but the mix of playfulness and seriousness that characterizes all things _Johnny_ shines through and makes Taeyong’s lips curl up into a grin in pure knee-jerk reaction.

"We'll see then, big boy," Taeyong replies, smile still in place. Logistics are clearly left for later when, instead of saying anything back, a laughing Johnny reaches over and tries to put him into a headlock. Taeyong barely manages to dodge him, scrambling onto his feet with only one shoe on and hopping until he’s out of reach, loudly talking about ungrateful defensemen with a knack for physical contact off the ice.

* * *

The first thing Johnny does when he gets the grand tour of Taeyong’s house—the house they’ll share for the rest of the season, oh _God_ —is coo at the family pictures on one of the walls of the living room. Taeyong is _mortified._

“You’re telling me you were even tinier than you are now?” Johnny teases, and laughs at Taeyong’s protest, at his rambling about _building muscle is hard_ and _I’m bigger than I ever was now_ , which doesn’t exactly help his case, and yet, Taeyong can’t find it in himself to be _too_ annoyed about it.

“ _And_ you wore roller skates… while riding a scooter?” Johnny teases, and Taeyong groans out loud, mainly because he remembers falling onto his ass a minute after that picture was taken but also because for some reason that picture of him throwing a peace sign to the camera is one of the few pictures of himself as a child that made its way to the internet _and_ it’s also one of his dad’s favorites, which means he can’t escape the embarrassment of it all. _Ever._

Taeyong tries to steer him past the living room into the kitchen, internally cursing himself for forgetting completely the fact that the pictures he had once arranged with his mom were kind of embarrassing for your teammate-turned-friend to fixate on. Johnny doesn’t even shift when Taeyong places his hands on Johnny’s shoulder blades and _pushes_ , instead continues staring at the pictures in wonder.

 _Now that’s particularly unfair_ , Taeyong thinks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You were dressed as a _frog_ for Halloween, oh my _God_ ,” Johnny says, amazed, index finger swooping gently over the golden frame of one of the many pictures with his sister. In this one, he’s three, carefully held in her arms in an equally carefully crafted green frog costume—with _googly eyes_ in a headband and all—small hands clutching at his plastic neon orange pumpkin candy bucket. He’s smiling with a few teeth missing, eyes closed by the force of his delight. “Is that your sister?” Johnny questions, pointing towards her smiling face. In the picture she is dressed as a flower, her smile a mirror of Taeyong’s minus the missing teeth.

“Yeah, she is,” Taeyong answers Johnny’s question, cheeks red as he attempts to elbow Johnny’s side. The larger man manages to avoid it with ease, smiling smugly once he does—yet another failed attempt to get him to direct his attention to _anywhere_ else.

“And them?” Johnny points to a picture of six kids decked out in Maple Leafs blue from head to toe with small hockey sticks and equally small gloves.

“Some of my neighbors, friends—the kid trying to steal my stick is Marner,” Taeyong says, pointing to the guy pulling on baby Taeyong’s stick. Taeyong remembers how angry he had been at that, even going so far as to whack Mitch’s head with his glove—which resulted in the younger kid crying and Taeyong getting scolded by his mom in front of _everyone_. “A _menace_ off the ice too,” Taeyong states but he’s grinning, thinking of Mitch cheering for him on the sidelines of his games as he got older.

Johnny shudders exaggeratedly. “I know all about _that_ —I’m the one trying to stop the fucker from scoring on us while you fly around on the ice,” he says, as though he’s a struggling fourth liner rather than the impenetrable wall he’s proven to be with Miro as his defensive partner.

“Shut up, dude,” Taeyong groans, elbowing Johnny once again and ignoring his cry of _foul play_ when Taeyong succeeds in pushing his bony elbow into Johnny’s side. “Don’t you wanna see the kitchen?” he asks. It sounds more like a plea for mercy than a polite offer.

“I wanna see it all,” Johnny replies sincerely, turning to look at Taeyong.

“Then let’s _go_!” Taeyong exclaims, seriously hoping Johnny means he’s excited about the house, or how much Taeyong has talked up his kitchen setup. Taeyong giggles nervously, reaching over to drop a friendly slap on Johnny’s shoulder before finally succeeding in steering him towards the kitchen.

* * *

Living with Johnny turns out to be one of the easiest things Taeyong has ever done. That’s a thought that somehow manages to both scare him and make him a little giddy.

It’s the little things that make it all so comfortable to fall into, to look forward to.

It’s the way Johnny will wake up earlier than Taeyong—who regularly struggles with getting up for _anything_ —and make breakfast, waking Taeyong up with the fresh smell of french-pressed coffee and even _waffles_ if he’s so inclined. It’s the way Johnny is quick to sit down with Taeyong and help him make a fresh batch of kimchi on their days off, chatting over the work about everything and nothing. It’s the way they slowly warm up to conversing in Korean and the way they giggle at the occasional miscommunication, a side effect of learning the language by ear at home.

It’s also the way they sit side by side in the living room, folding their laundry (which usually turns into Taeyong poking at Johnny so he stops half-assing it), watching movies or reruns of games, fighting playfully over the minor league teams they support, or even doing nothing at all.

 _I could get used to this_ , Taeyong thinks, leaning against the kitchen island as he watches Johnny’s broad shoulders move to chop vegetables with the proficiency of a chef. Taeyong holds on to the marble like it’s the only thing keeping him together and half-listens to the other man ramble about the quality of the new protein shake brand Klinger recommended to him.

_I could get used to this._

* * *

If there’s one thing Taeyong hates about road games, it’s not being able to take a proper shower at home. Sure, he's more than used to the not-really-private shower stalls, used to showering with a bunch of people at the same time, so much so that it _really_ doesn’t phase him at all (or, well, it shouldn’t; there are exceptions he’s not willing to entertain) but there’s something so much better about showering at home with his own soap and his _towels_.

The water is a little on the scalding side as it beats down his back, making Taeyong’s skin tingle, but it’s exactly what he needs right now. His muscles are way too sore after a grueling double overtime game in Toronto (which they _won,_ by the skin of their teeth) and a late night flight that only landed an hour ago at 3 a.m. Half an hour later and he’s _finally_ stepping into his shower, welcoming the hot water with open arms.

The entire room is fogging up and he can barely see as he reaches forward and grabs the soap bar with one hand but it’s good, really, being able to tell where his skin ends while still being surrounded by all-encompassing warmth. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, first to get his hair properly wet, and then to let the water slide down his face and to his neck.

All he can hear is the water; it’s rare moments like these when his mind slows down, empty of all worries, and Taeyong allows himself to drift wherever his thoughts take him, no cable down to Earth. He’s lathering his arms up slowly, as if he has all the time in the fucking world, and the feeling of touching his own arms feels foreign, like his hands have grown in size—

He keeps his eyes shut and tips his head forward as he moves to soap up his chest instead, the bar feeling more slippery than before as it touches his skin, and his treacherous mind conjures what had just happened the day before—in Chicago, when Johnny’s soap slipped from his own damn stall all the way down the row to Taeyong’s and he had sheepishly shown up to retrieve it, fully naked. Taeyong had found himself burning up from the inside, wanting to stop him right there, to reach out and touch the defined lines of his abdominal muscles, and it’s not the same, and he really shouldn’t—but his right hand moves practically on its own, a smooth slide of his palm against skin, the image of Johnny smiling in that sheepish way of his, all tanned skin and glory burned onto the inside of his eyelids.

Now he’s here, now there, and he’s touching his own stomach, not cut from marble like Johnny’s but enough so that his mind wanders. It’s like he’s lost all control, uncaring for the way the soap falls to the shower floor, focused instead on how he can—and will never admit to—picture Johnny, just as naked and wet as he is, touching Taeyong all over. Feels himself growing aroused when he wonders about how Johnny would look in this very same shower, on his knees, a little pleased smile on his face before he fists Taeyong’s dick in his warm hand and leans in to tongue at the head, his full lips looking incredibly red. Taeyong groans and with both of his hands suddenly free, there’s now too much to feel, to touch, his skin on fire, and he can’t help but go to that place where his body is not his, and his hands are not his own. And, well—now he’s stroking himself, slow and with a shaky hand at first, and it’s _really_ not him doing this, it’s—

He stumbles a little, forcing himself to find the nearest wall with his free hand. He refuses to open his eyes as he picks up the pace after leaning against it, his hand firmer now, fast and hard just like he needs it. He hears Johnny’s low chuckle right in his ear, like he’s _there_ , like he _knows_ what Taeyong is doing, like he’s amused by it. He bites his lower lip and muffles the wanton moan almost making its way out of his body and simultaneously lets himself go, shuddering through the orgasm that seems to rip through him like lightning striking down once, hard.

Taeyong slowly opens his eyes after what feels like too long, blinking away the dark spots as the hairs on his arms raise. He thrusts his left hand forward, putting it directly under the water, and watches how the proof of what just happened goes down the drain.

The water is colder now. He doesn't dare look past the blue tiles as he scrubs himself clean with his bare hands, washing all the remnants from his skin.

He doesn’t think about how Johnny is a couple of doors away. He counts to five once, then once again, and breathes in deep through his nose, turning the faucet off.

* * *

It’s easier to stress cook once you’ve got the excuse of fulfilling a promise. If the promise is feeding the bottomless pit that is John Suh’s stomach, it’s easier to fulfill on one of the sparse nights when there’s no game or trip, nothing else to do but wallow over your team’s league standings or watch NHL TV.

So that’s what Taeyong is doing. Cooking, being helped by John Suh, and trying to cope with a possible existential crisis.

“Could you pass me the rolling pin? It’s in the first drawer to your left,” Taeyong instructs His hands are coated with flour; he’s glad he thought to roll up his sleeves before they started cooking. He’d tried to teach Johnny how to knead pizza dough, but he quickly took over with the excuse of leaving that class for when Johnny was _“more advanced_ ”. Taeyong needed to get his aggression out on something like kneading but he wasn’t about to tell Johnny the reason.

“Sure thing, cap.” Johnny salutes, bending down slightly to open the drawer and retrieve what he was asked for.

“ _Hush_.” Taeyong leans sideways enough to punch Johnny’s shoulder, leaving behind a white spot in the shape of his closed fist. “It’s alternate captain— _boss_ to you, though,” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows.

Johnny simply laughs, handing Taeyong the rolling pin he’d asked for and muttering about _Canadian authoritarianism_.

From the corner of his eye, Taeyong can see Johnny casually leaning against the counter. He taps an irregular beat with two fingers, trying to follow the song playing on Taeyong’s speakers as he awaits further instruction.

Taeyong is not sure if Johnny notices but he can see how unsubtly Johnny stares at Taeyong’s toned arms kneading the pizza dough.

He feels naked under Johnny’s gaze, which shouldn’t matter at all since they’ve literally shared a locker room for months now. He and Johnny have seen each other in various states of undress, of stress, of pain. And still, the intensity of those eyes, their intent, makes Taeyong want to cover up, to hide under his blankets like he’s thirteen and he’s just home after getting his first kiss from Emily under the bleachers.

Dealing with his existential crisis? Definitely not happening. Not with Johnny in the room. Maybe not even with Johnny in the same state, on the same continent. Maybe Taeyong should just buy a ticket to Sweden and start playing for Frölunda, the team that Klinger never stopped loving.

To his side, Johnny keeps following the song, now humming and wiggling a little in his place. His gaze burns bright, warm against Taeyong’s skin.

Taeyong stores his _problem_ —whatever _that_ is—away for later, for his room, for a couple of weeks in the future. There’s nothing he can do right now. He breathes in deeply, focuses his eyes on his own hands, and kneads until the dough is perfectly oven-ready.

* * *

Christmas is often a loud affair in the Lee household, filled with music and hours spent either cooking in the kitchen or in the living-room watching cheesy movies and providing live commentary on them. With the addition of Johnny’s family, the noise has doubled. Taeyong’s house has become fuller and everything is brighter.

Taeyong figures it runs in the family, this ability to put people at ease and connect with them as easy as breathing, welcoming them into something warm and all-encompassing.

The chatter fades as Taeyong walks from the kitchen to Johnny’s room, following orders to fetch the man who had disappeared twenty minutes ago and was about to miss the start of dinner. Taeyong’s feet, clad in fluffy, bright red socks—an early gift from Johnny, who got himself a pair of bright green socks to match—make no noise as he advances through the hallway, stopping in front of the bedroom that Johnny had once hesitated to claim as his.

“Johnny?” Taeyong asks, loud enough to be heard through the closed door.

“One sec!” Johnny’s muffled voice replies, moments before the door opens. Johnny’s face looks slightly damp and his brows are furrowed for a moment before settling down to be replaced by his usual grin. There’s not enough time for Taeyong to comment on it, though, because Johnny is quick to ask, “Is dinner ready?”

“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure our moms are conspiring to keep our fridge stocked full for a month.” Taeyong steps back to give Johnny enough room to close the door. “Like I haven’t made a cook out of you!” he adds, teasing.

Johnny bumps their arms together, rolling his eyes. “You’ve tried. I keep fucking up everything that’s not pasta or chopping vegetables,” he says. There’s a little bit of embarrassment in his voice but he’s smiling now, probably thinking about the last time he tried to make dinner for both of them and ended up burning salmon beyond recognition.

“We’ll get there,” Taeyong replies, smiling back. His cheeks hurt a little from the force of it.

“I’m happy they’re getting along,” Johnny states, gesturing in the general direction of the kitchen without making any attempt to rejoin their families.

“Me too,” Taeyong says, equally truthful. “I’m pretty sure I heard my mom say she wants to experience your family’s _fake Thanksgiving_ and I swear your dad _lit up_ talking about how he’s perfected the turkey recipe over the years and how your mom makes the most wonderful side dishes.”

Johnny laughs, a delighted little thing, and Taeyong’s treacherous heart skips a beat. “Give it a week until my mom invites herself _and_ your family into your house for next year’s Thanksgiving, never mind that we might have a game on that day or something,” he replies, amused. Taeyong laughs with him.

“Oh, they’ve already started making plans—my sister just keeps sipping her wine, texting her boyfriend and laughing at my attempts to slow them down.”

“She’s so _cool_ ,” Johnny says. Taeyong can’t disagree. Exposure to Taeyeon Lee for even just a few minutes is enough to realize that she’s the smartest person ever, in Taeyong’s humble opinion. The most wicked fun person, too—but that’s something that Taeyong knows only happens when she’s not under their family’s eyes. Spending a couple hours with her? Enough to make even the hardest people fall for her charm.

“And taken,” Taeyong’s nose scrunches, as he knocks into Johnny’s side. Or tries to.

“I’m _not_ trying to hit up your _sister_ , Taeyong, holy shit,” Johnny replies. Taeyong notices how distressed Johnny looks at the mere thought of doing _that_. Taeyong’s relieved smile is not subtle and he doesn’t bother trying to mask it. He’s not sure why.

“What were you doing?” Taeyong inquires as they walk side by side through the hallway. The combination of their families’ voices and old trot music increases in volume as they move forward.

“Oh, I was talking with Jae and Doyoung—I told you about them, remember?” Johnny asks.

Taeyong thinks about the polaroids he once saw in Johnny’s room along with a picture of a smaller Johnny, smiling brightly despite his missing teeth, and two other Korean kids, slightly younger but just as happy. He remembers Johnny’s fond face when talking about how Jae, the youngest of the group, used to cling to Johnny like a koala and how that used to annoy Doyoung—and then how that had evolved into a weird frenemies situation, much to Johnny’s bemusement.

Taeyong nods and Johnny smiles before continuing, “I was just wishing them a nice night and telling them not to kill each other. I don’t get why the fuck they keep spending the holidays together if they are like cats and dogs.” He chuckles but it sounds a little empty. Taeyong wants nothing more than to hold Johnny in his arms tightly until he’s bright and happy again.

He clutches the edge of his sweater sleeves instead, bringing them down to cover most of his hands, and does his best to echo Johnny’s amusement. “They’ll be _fine_. What you have to worry about is your mom getting tipsy and finally spilling the beans on what you were like as a kid,” he teases.

“You’re the one that can’t hold the liquor, baby,” Johnny says, genuine laughter now leaving his lips at Taeyong’s offended splutter.

Johnny’s mom coos when Johnny steps foot in the kitchen, calling him _my love_ in their mother tongue and smiling the same sunshine smile Johnny has. Taeyong chuckles as he follows into the bustle and noise. Watching the scene unfold in front of him makes him feel warm all over. He takes a mental picture to keep tucked close to his heart, right alongside the feelings of _home_ and _belonging_. He holds it close and realizes he has Johnny to thank for it; realizes he’s not sure how to say it; realizes that the feelings of gratefulness and affection and love keep growing, almost like a rolling snowball—practically unstoppable.

* * *

An afternoon off in January is an oddity but Taeyong isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth when his legs ache in all the places that always start acting up around this time in the season.

He’s not going to complain about spending his day off watching reruns of _The Office_ with Johnny, either, even though the atmosphere this evening is weird. Johnny won’t stop glancing at his phone and doesn’t keep the enthusiastic commentary Taeyong has grown used to. This has happened a couple of times since Christmas—though it usually doesn’t stretch over hours. It’s a moment, a pause in which Johnny looks like he's itching to say something before he shakes it off and returns to normal.

It really doesn’t take long for the tension to settle in the room and make Taeyong feel cold all over, moved to silence as his attention switches restlessly between the TV screen and his phone. Johnny keeps bouncing his left leg, a nervous tick Taeyong has noticed before— _nervous flyer_ , Johnny had said when Taeyong asked about it on the team plane en route to Detroit. 

Johnny breaks the silence first, clearing his throat, and Taeyong startles, facing Johnny and noticing just how nervous the other man looks. 

“Hey, Taeyong—” he says, waiting for Taeyong to signal that he’s listening, that he’s watching. “There’s something I have to tell you.” Taeyong can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He finds himself growing antsy, too.

“Are you moving out?” Taeyong asks, trying to not sound disappointed. His eyes drift towards the series they’ve been half watching for the past hour. “Moving while the season is half done sounds like so much trouble and like, there’s no lease to pay here— y’know, that kind of thing.”

“I’m _not_ moving out—” Johnny says quickly, and then pauses. “Unless you need me to! In that case I absolutely will.” Taeyong sends him a frankly confused look and he babbles on. “Anyways, I talked with someone from back home and, uh, realized there was something I needed to share with you.” Johnny stumbles through his words in a way that Taeyong has never witnessed before. 

_Oh_. “You’re dating someone, then?” Taeyong asks, and he’s smiling, sure, but he also feels like he’s been punched in the gut. For Johnny’s sake—for _his_ own sake—he keeps his voice light, adding, “If you are, just tell me if she’s coming down and I’ll clear out for a little, I’m sure it’s hard being so far and—”

“Taeyong!” Johnny interrupts, his voice a notch louder than before. Taeyong sees him take a deep breath, roll his shoulders, and sit up straighter, like he’s getting ready to take a blow with dignity. Like he’s preparing himself for the worst. “Taeyong,” he repeats. His voice is back to normal but he sounds resolute. “Taeyong, I—I like men.” 

Taeyong pictures the exact moment a very smiley, almost cartoonishly villainous Johnny breaks the metaphorical glass box that he keeps, the one that says _Don’t Even,_ with a fucking sledgehammer. “You’re _gay_?”

“Uh, not exactly—I’m, y’know. Bisexual?” Johnny stumbles through his words like he’s trying to find his footing after a particularly rough check. Taeyong thinks the comparison isn’t that far off. Taeyong watches in awe as he clears his throat and speaks again, voice unwavering now. “Yeah. I’m bisexual.”

There’s so much Taeyong wants to say, so much he wants to ask, but words escape him. That particular kind of panic he’s been experiencing lately seizes his throat, grabs a hold of it and renders him speechless for a solid minute. Johnny grows more antsy by the second and it’s ultimately what snaps Taeyong out of whatever state he’s in. 

“Are you—you know, dating a guy then?” Taeyong asks, voice strained. A pause, and then, “Are you dating _Jae_?” he asks, remembering how the baseball player had mentioned an ex boyfriend once—something that had left Taeyong buzzing for _days_.

“ _No,_ no, oh _no,_ ” Johnny quickly replies, words rushing out of his mouth like he can’t even fathom the thought of Taeyong thinking he’s with anyone, like he finds _that_ stressful. “I’m single! Yes, single, like a cucumber,” Johnny continues, laughing awkwardly afterwards.

 _Oh._ “Who knows?” he asks, voice small.

“The people I care about,” Johnny replies, eyes sparkling with something Taeyong doesn’t dare name. “Doyoung said— he said I should be honest with you, since we are close now and I hate keeping secrets from people I like,” he adds. He seems _shy_ but not at all as stressed as Taeyong thinks he would be when he imagines himself saying these exact same words.

“ _Oh_ ,” Taeyong eloquently says after one too many seconds. The ground beneath his feet seems to give out and he’s about to fall, he’s _falling_ , and the only thing that seems to pull him back up is the tentative, nervous smile Johnny offers him. 

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Johnny mocks. His smile is back to the blinding brightness that Taeyong has grown accustomed to seeing; the one that makes something that he ignores flutter in his chest, nervous, desperate to get out.

Taeyong offers a tentative smile back.

And that’s that.

* * *

Taeyong hears Johnny enter the room before he sees him. He’s wearing that pair of grey sweatpants with the printed Captain America shields _again_ , with an equally faded white shirt, like he has no clothes to wear inside their house other than clothes so thin Taeyong feels he can point out the moles spread across Johnny’s body. 

The way Taeyong perks up could possibly be considered Pavlovian and also absolutely uncalled for. He has a theory that Johnny might be a witch, or related to one, and has him under a curse but Taeyong doesn’t allow himself any time to consider _why_ and _what_ kind of curse would compel him to act like this. Instead he asks, all cool, calm and collected, “Hey, you want to play Xbox?”

“Sorry, man, I’m waiting for Jae’s call,” Johnny replies, sounding extremely apologetic. Taeyong’s heart sinks like the fucking Titanic. “Apparently he’s going to give me like, news or some shit. Raincheck for later?” he adds, hopeful.

Jae. Jaehyun Jung. _Jay_. _Again_. Taeyong knows _all_ about the rising baseball player by now. Over the time he has spent with Johnny, stories about them growing up together and living in each other’s pockets, stories about Johnny’s other very smart best friend Doyoung, on his way to a Master’s degree in sociology, and their weird bickering relationship have filled their chats during road trips. And sure, Taeyong talks about his friends too, but—

Taeyong can’t deny it: he’s bothered. He’s bothered and it has him feeling off-kilter. It’s not the first time Johnny has phoned Jaehyun, hell, he’s done it with Taeyong in the room—he even _introduced_ them. They’ve _talked_.

And yet.

“That’s cool!” Taeyong says, voice squeakier than he ever intended. He coughs to clear his throat and adds, a whole octave lower, “Tell him to get ready ‘cause the Jays are going to beat his ass soon.”

“Will do,” Johnny says, smiling in amusement. Before he can add anything about the Cubs being a better team, Taeyong gets up from the sofa, clutching his phone tightly. “Where are you going?” Johnny asks.

“Forgot I had something to do,” Taeyong mumbles, quickly directing his steps towards the kitchen while knowing fully that he has, in fact, zero plans for the remaining day. 

Well. He _had_ a plan. His _plan_ was to hang out with Johnny; to make him laugh and let him inch closer as Johnny always does, to test out first-hand how much of Johnny’s proximity Taeyong’s heart could handle... solely for scientific reasons, of course.

Stupid baseball player with his stupid perfect hair and stupid dimples. 

_God_ , it really won’t be long before Johnny starts dating Jaehyun, will it? Johnny said he wasn’t dating anyone, sure, but… they seem to be perfect for each other. They look good together and even if there’s distance Taeyong knows Johnny would make it work; he wouldn’t let the distance affect them. Why the fuck does Taeyong feels his soul drop to his feet just _thinking_ about that?

_Oh no._

Taeyong thinks about the thrill he feels when Johnny’s arms curl up around him in the middle of the AAC whenever he scores a goal. He thinks about the way his heart flutters whenever he yells _yeah, baby!_ or _you’re amazing_ , in a way that mutes the noise of everyone else.

Taeyong also thinks of the fear that had gripped him at age thirteen when one of his teammates caught Taeyong staring for longer than he should’ve and viciously hurled words at him that Taeyong doesn’t dare repeat to this day.

He clings to the marble counter, holding onto it like it's the only thing keeping him above water. The cold of the marble sinks into his fingers. Taeyong takes a few moments—minutes, probably—to stare at the whiteness of his knuckles. He has to count to ten more times than usual for the shaking of his hands to subside enough for him to pry them away from the counter.

Halfway on auto-pilot, Taeyong fills a glass with ice cold water and drinks it down in one gulp, all but resting his full body weight against the fridge. 

He can hear Johnny’s booming laughter in the other room. It washes over him like a wave.

* * *

The brightness of the sun doesn’t burn his skin, just makes it tingle pleasantly. Taeyong opens his eyes and realizes he’s alone with Johnny, _chilling_ in someplace he can’t name off the top of his head but looks exactly like his parents’ backyard in Toronto.

They are alone.

“Hm, this tastes so fucking good,” Taeyong groans, taking the bite held between Johnny’s chopsticks.

Johnny’s chuckle sounds like music to Taeyong’s ears. “Winning _this_ makes it sweeter,” he says, lifting the huge championship cup with one hand. He takes a big bite for himself, slurping the noodles out of the trophy loudly.

 _He looks beautiful like this_ , Taeyong thinks. _Sunglasses and swimming shorts, torso on full display_. Taeyong looks down and finds himself in similar attire. His chest is littered with fading bruises that are decidedly _not_ hockey-shaped. 

There’s a flash, and then there is Taeyong, and the press of Johnny’s lips against his skin, and the sharpness of Johnny’s teeth biting into his flesh, and the way he presses Taeyong down into sheets of the softest silk. Another flash, and Taeyong finds himself back in the sunny morning, fingers tightening against the fabric of his shorts, mouth dry. 

“Taeyong.” Johnny’s voice startles Taeyong out of his musings. He finds that he can’t really look at the other man anymore but can hear his voice as clear as day, as clear as the sweetness which accompanies the perfect pronunciation of his name in a foreign (but not exactly foreign, pretty much his own by now) land.

“Yeah?” Taeyong replies, confused. The silver gleam of the trophy has faded to a dull grey. The clouds approach their little haven, covering the sun.

“ _Taeyong_.” The voice is louder now, right next to his ear, and accompanied by a none too gentle shake that succeeds in startling Taeyong out of sleep.

 _Fuck,_ Taeyong thinks, trying to cling to unconsciousness and the weird but oddly pleasant fantasy of Johnny feeding him store-bought ramen out of the Stanley Cup. He groans, turning to the side and burrowing under the bed covers, then pauses, because why the _fuck_ was he even dreaming of that? Who the _fuck_ dreams about their good friend feeding them from the major league trophy?

Fortunately, the whirring of his mind doesn’t require Taeyong to open his eyes. They remain resolutely shut in spite of Johnny’s amused chuckle. 

“Big baby, wake _up,_ ” Johnny says. Now his hand is on Taeyong’s hip, shaking him slightly. The touch burns even through the covers. 

“M up, fuck, I’m up,” Taeyong grumbles. He sits up, eyes still shut, and winces at the soreness in his side. Johnny’s hand lingers for just a moment before abandoning Taeyong’s hip. In the moment before it moves, Taeyong realises with dawning horror that he wants so badly for it to stay, to touch and explore. He realises that if Johnny asked for it—paused and gave Taeyong the same look he sometimes wears late at night when they’re curled close on the sofa in front of the TV—Taeyong wouldn’t refuse him. Hell, Taeyong would _encourage_ him.

 _Fuck_.

Johnny stands up, blissfully unaware of the short circuit in Taeyong’s brain. “I made breakfast. I’m pretty sure you slept through your alarms,” he says, amused, but Taeyong can only focus on how Johnny’s white t-shirt clings to his biceps.

He’s standing so close that Taeyong is sure he’s going to have an aneurysm. Never mind the countless occasions on which Johnny has attempted to roughhouse with him half-clothed in the locker room. This is somehow _worse_.

“I sure did,” Taeyong replies, chuckling nervously as Johnny runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame his bedhead.

 _Has his hair always looked this soft?_ Taeyong thinks, and then, _Kinda wanna run my hands through it._

“Let’s go, we don’t want to be late for training.” Johnny motions towards the door with his index finger but doesn’t move.

“Just a moment,” Taeyong says, stretching his arms. He cringes at the brutal _pop_ of his back and quickly lowers his arms, abruptly conscious of his threadbare sleep shirt riding up his ribs. Johnny makes a sympathetic noise and pats Taeyong on the head before he leaves the room whistling under his breath. His good mood is the furthest thing from how Taeyong is feeling.

* * *

Losing by eight goals in a totally uncontested blowout and thereby forfeiting their only chance of making it to the playoffs wasn't how Taeyong envisioned the team’s season ending. 

But that’s exactly what happens.

Talking to the press afterwards is a particular kind of torture he never wants to endure ever again in his lifetime. Because the Universe hates him—or perhaps because his head is still swimming a little from that late check into the boards—the time spent with the press seems to conversely fly by and drag on like nails on a chalkboard. The atmosphere feels heavy and suffocating. Taeyong wants nothing more than to get out of his fucking equipment and get home because _fuck_ , he’s exhausted; but now the coach is speaking about the future and finishing next season better than this one, and now Jamie is yelling about what the _fuck_ was that game and how everyone played like fucking _trash,_ himself included. 

Taeyong disagrees. If Johnny and Miro hadn’t skated as much as they did, the game would’ve ended 0-20.

He tunes the lecturing out after a bit. It’s not that the words can’t reach him but rather that he already _knows_ everything being said, and that it will all catch up to him later tonight when his quashed hopes keep him awake. He takes his time peeling off hissweaty uniform and equally sweaty pads, thinking that if the premature end of yet another season wasn’t so devastating; if everyone wasn’t practically _mourning_ ; if Johnny didn’t look traumatised by Jamie’s speech; if only the score had been different, Taeyong would throw one of his balled up socks at Johnny just for laughs before running off to the showers.

He figures he should’ve warned Johnny about how intense Jamie gets after losing playoffs qualifiers. A bitter sort of amusement bubbles up in Taeyong when he thinks about what he must’ve looked like as a rookie on the receiving end of Jamie Benn’s lecturing.

Taeyong had been foolish enough to think that maybe this season would be different; maybe Johnny wouldn’t need the warning.

He keeps his mouth shut and his head down, gets naked in no time, and makes his way to the shower to let the cold water clear his mind and relax his muscles. 

He takes time to stretch out every single inch of his body until he feels light and airy and better off than he usually does after games like these. He’s not about to get injured for not stretching properly—that’d be the joke of the fucking century. Imagine adding _months of physical therapy and rehab_ to his list of problems that already includes _Losing playoffs chance… again_ and, most notably, _Unresolved Johnny situation._ As if.

Once he’s done, Taeyong throws his bag over his shoulder and asks, “You ready?” He turns to Johnny’s stall, expecting to find the man taking his sweet time to dress and fix his hair as usual.

To his surprise, Johnny sits right under the green tag with his number and name. He’s bundled up in the deep blue hoodie that Taeyong secretly loves and frowning so deeply that Taeyong doesn’t dare to comment on it. The man jumps to his feet when he hears Taeyong speak. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Johnny replies, somehow sounding incredibly eager and upset at the same time.

Taeyong can’t help but let a small, bitter chuckle out. _You get used to it,_ he thinks. _Except not really, because you want to play more hockey and_ win _and now you can’t._

He pats Johnny’s shoulder once with a little bit of strength behind it, hoping to shake Johnny out of his funk. “Let’s go,” he says instead, digging in his bag for the keys to his truck as he walks towards the parking lot. He’s comforted by knowing that even if he can’t see him, Johnny is right behind him.

* * *

The rest of the season drags on in a subdued fashion. They get a couple of wins, a couple of losses, and suddenly it’s the day after locker room clean up and the frankly exhausting locker room clean up media. He and Johnny aren’t moping but they are firmly _not_ talking about just how badly the season ended for their team.

In fact, they’re not talking, like, at all, which is _fine_. It’s exactly what Taeyong needs: to get away from Johnny and Dallas for a little bit so he can lick his wounds and find his footing again after what feels like an eternity (but is really just a season) of standing at the edge of a cliff. 

He just needs to take a step back. 

Jumping forward is _not_ an option.

Fingers hovering above his laptop’s keyboard (after all, he has a flight home to make and even though Taeyong _knew_ they were out of the competition long before it even started, he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to buy a ticket back to Toronto), he briefly considers messaging Mitch to ask if he wants to hang out when Taeyong gets home. Then he remembers the fucking _Leafs_ made the playoffs and pauses. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath to stop the awful feelings bubbling in the pit of his stomach, to stop the thought that _it should’ve been them_ , and leaves his laptop on the coffee table. 

He can deal with plane tickets later. 

He spots a Johnny-shaped figure in the pool and walks towards the backyard almost on autopilot.

Then he _really_ sees Johnny.

He’s shirtless—and honestly, Taeyong hates himself because the first thing he notices about Johnny is not the water droplets clinging to his skin, or the fact that his swimming trunks are soaked, suggesting he’s just gotten out of the pool, but rather the broad expanse of his shoulders, the way he glows under the sun, the way he hunches alone at the edge of the water, defeated.

Taeyong can hear Johnny’s thoughts all the way from the patio door.

He can hear them because they are his thoughts, too.

Taeyong approaches without bothering to be quiet and watches Johnny become the unwavering mountain that Taeyong is so accustomed to seeing. Taeyong throws his flip-flops somewhere behind them and carefully dips first his toes and then his ankles into the water, mindful of the distance he puts between himself and Johnny.

“Hey, we’ll get ‘em next time, eh?” says Taeyong after a few moments of companionable silence. He purposely bumps Johnny’s shoulder with his own, quashing down whatever makes his stomach seize when he succeeds in making Johnny smile; a little thing that lights up Johnny’s face in a way Taeyong doesn’t want to think about.

“You are so fucking Canadian,” Johnny teases, beaming. Taeyong makes a little noise of protest because he _knows_ his Korean is better out of the two of them, remembers Johnny's mom’s delight as they made casual conversation in the mother tongue that Taeyong finds so foreign at times and yet for which he always yearns. He gears up to point out that Johnny sounds more American than _Ben Bishop,_ how is that even _possible_ , while also avoiding Johnny’s elbows and trying to come up with some reporter-approved answer to whatever Johnny will surely say about how they’ll definitely crush it when October comes around again. 

But Johnny, as Taeyong has come to learn, will never yield, will never be predictable. He bumps Taeyong right back and instead of the bland response Taeyong had prepared for, he asks, “You’ll stay in touch, right?” He seems totally unaware of how those five words have absolutely changed the course of Taeyong’s summer plans.

“Of course,” Taeyong replies, shoving Johnny once more and moving in to ruffle his hair in hopes that Johnny will be distracted and fail to notice the softening of his voice. He refuses to look at the smile that surely graces Johnny’s lips and pretends he can’t feel the _something_ that climbs up his throat when Johnny easily brings him in. His touch stays unexpectedly gentle as he curls his body around Taeyong’s to put him in a loose, playful headlock.

_Of course._

## .

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## 02\. interlude: the hero’s shoulders

 _Is it okay to be gay_ , he types into the search bar, and then groans out loud. Of course it is. He knows this. Joy, the only girl he ever befriended in high school, is a lesbian and they still keep in touch through social media—he even met her girlfriend, Yerim, when he helped them move into their new apartment. But even _he’s_ not dumb enough to hide behind the I’m-not-homophobic-I-have-one-gay-friend excuse many people use right before going into a spiel about how homosexuality is ruining the sacred institution of marriage or some shit. He _knows_ it’s okay, he _knows_ there’s nothing wrong with finding love amongst your own gender.

It’s just that...Taeyong remembers going to church. He remembers some of the things they taught him, things he listened to and treated as holy law—because he believed they _were_ the infallible word of God. And, yeah, Taeyong _believes_ in that roundabout way a lot of people his age do. He believes in God—whoever _that_ is—and he believes in love, and in family. For Taeyong, most of the time those things are one and the same.

 _This is pointless_ , Taeyong thinks. Guilt grows in his belly as he scrolls through the results that pop up for his Google search—a knee-jerk reaction based on old words that he no longer believes in.

This isn’t _it_. _It_ being the thing holding him back from finally taking Johnny’s cues and doing something about them.

 _Gay athletes_ , he types instead. The amount of articles that pop up about players coming out, starting the family they’ve always wished for, and living happily being themselves is reassuring, in a way. _Gay hockey players_ , Taeyong types, watching in fascination as those stories pop up, too: stories about players marrying other players, getting kids, and teaching _them_ how to love hockey, too.

And yet—that doesn’t happen in men’s hockey. At least not in the NHL, the only place Taeyong has ever dreamed of being, the only thing he’s ever wanted since he knew what wanting something meant.

This isn’t _it_ either. At least not fully. Maybe the _thing_ that eats away at him, the _thing_ that he can’t really pinpoint, won’t ever fully go away, but—

His phone pings twice in quick succession, startling Taeyong out of his musings. 

_2 new messages from John Suh._

Taeyong bites his lip, pondering over whether he’ll look desperate answering so fast, if he should just wait for a little bit. Then he thinks, _fuck it,_ and swipes to unlock his phone.

Johnny has sent him a brand new selfie. He’s sitting on a dock, wearing a straw hat, squinting a little because of the sun but smiling as bright as always. Behind him, Jaehyun is pushing Doyoung into the water.

 _Perfect timing_ , the second message reads. Taeyong laughs out loud.

 _Were you taking a picture for me?_ Taeyong texts back. 

_Maybe_ , Johnny replies. Taeyong’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest.

 _Who the fuck cares_ , Taeyong thinks, taking a poorly lit picture of himself with his eyebrows raised and sending it back. _This is good. This makes me happy._

_I want to be happy._

* * *

Mitch Marner texting him is not unusual. 

Texts like these, though, _are_ unusual.

 _u and that johnny dude are awful close now_ , the message reads. Taeyong’s laughter rings through the living room, startling Ruby where she lays nearby.

“Sorry, baby,” Taeyong mumbles, scratching behind her ears a couple of times before he starts to type.

It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that everyone can see the corny shit Johnny comments on Taeyong’s Instagram post. Of course it’s up to Mitch to remind Taeyong that they are _flirting_ in _public._

Not that Mitch _knows_ that they’re flirting. Or, at least, Taeyong _hopes_ he doesn’t know.

 _fuck off marns_ , he sends, pondering for a moment before typing a _u jealous?_ and pairing that up with the smiling cowboy emoji. 

_fuck off ty,_ Marns replies quickly, as always. _u down fr road hockey?_ he texts after. Taeyong finds himself smiling because this means Dylan is back in town, and probably Connor, too. 

_bet,_ Taeyong texts back before springing to his feet, giddy. He texts a blurry picture of the equipment he packed up for this very specific reason to Johnny a few minutes later, rambling about how he should be jealous because Taeyong’s friends are cooler than Johnny will ever be.

* * *

“Good boy that Johnny, eh?” His mom breaks the comfortable silence that had settled over the kitchen. She is preparing meat for the grill while Taeyong mixes up ingredients to make a carrot cake—the only cake he’s ever learnt to make—under the official excuse of his sister visiting being a special occasion. (The unofficial reason is that he’s pining maybe a little more than usual today. He misses Johnny and he wants to mess up his diet with cake.)

“Sure,” Taeyong replies, carefully measuring the sugar before throwing it into the bowl.

“He’s treating you right?” his mom asks. Taeyong freezes on the spot.

“He’s a great friend,” Taeyong says. For a moment he considers hiding inside the cleaning supplies closet like he did as a kid to avoid his mother’s inquisitive eyes; eyes that know it all, even the things Taeyong hides from her. “Yeah, he _is_ treating me right,” Taeyong concedes after one too many moments at the mercy of her raised eyebrows.

“Good.” His mother nods, satisfied. Her hands stop mixing the marinade for a moment before she continues mixing the condiments in. “His family is nice!” she adds casually, eyes twinkling. Taeyong swallows the knot in his throat.

“You still planning to come down for American Thanksgiving?” Taeyong asks. Their schedule just dropped and they _do_ have a game on Thanksgiving, but they have a couple of free days afterwards, which is when his mom said they would fly out.

“Of course, honey,” she replies, cleaning her hands with a paper towel. “Ms. Suh and I have been talking _so_ much lately,” his mom continues. Taeyong’s stomach drops a little at the emphasis.

Fuck. That can’t be good.

“That’s great, Mom,” Taeyong says, a little bit strained. It’s not exactly a lie, because he loves seeing his mom happy and making new friends, but he also knows her all _too_ well, and he knows that she’s either plotting, engaging in some _healthy information sharing_ , or worse. 

He can’t fathom what kind of information she feels she has to share with Johnny’s mom.

“Great family, that one,” his mother says, turning to look at Taeyong. He hums in agreement, taking his eyes off her and walking to the fridge. He pulls out the two eggs he needs, avoiding her eyes. “I’m glad that boy got sent to your team,” she adds. Taeyong can’t hide the smile that lights up his face.

“Me too,” he replies, breaking the eggs in quick succession and mixing them with the sugar. His mom starts to hum one of her favorite songs under her breath, satisfied with their talk; a talk Taeyong is sure Johnny will be getting from his own mother at some point this summer.

 _I’m glad, too_.

* * *

It’s not as though Johnny and Taeyong haven’t talked at all during the summer—they do have an extensive chat history both in iMessage and Instagram—but it’s their first time FaceTiming _ever_ , and Taeyong can’t lie to himself and say he’s not _nervous_. He gnaws at his lower lip as he waits for Johnny to answer, feeling the pit of his stomach fill with something airy, constantly moving, almost like—

The point is, he's waiting. It almost feels like his whole summer has been a build up for the exact moment Johnny accepts his request to FaceTime. If the first thing Taeyong sees—a very shirtless, very tanned, slightly pixelated Johnny Suh laying down in what's probably his bed with a tiny dog (one Taeyong recognises from the countless pictures Johnny had proudly shown off the _whole_ season, talking about how he couldn’t wait to get her into Dallas the next season) half on his lap, half on his stomach—leaves him breathless, well. He's only human.

“Taeyong! _Dude_ , how are you?” Johnny starts, _smiling_ now and looking impossibly bright despite all the miles Taeyong had been grateful to put between them. 

_Maybe he has some sort of secret superpower that stuns people_ , Taeyong thinks, watching Johnny intently as he greets him back without bothering to mask his relieved smile. _It’s his eyes and that_ smile, his brain supplies. There's just no way Taeyong is the only one _this_ affected by Johnny. He’s completely justified in his reaction.

“You’re back in Dallas?” Johnny asks, successfully shaking Taeyong from his thoughts about superheroes and whether or not Johnny would look good fighting crime in Victory Green spandex.

“Not yet,” Taeyong says, eyes drifting to the half-packed suitcase next to his bed before focusing on the screen again. Johnny’s dog has moved and Taeyong wants to die a little now that he can see the other man in his full shirtlessness. “I leave in two days. When are you going back?” _Home,_ he thinks, for some stupid fucking reason. _Home_.

“In a week,” Johnny replies, brushing a stray hair strand off his forehead. “I’m meeting with a couple of friends, maybe going golfing—the usual.”

“Oh, _no,_ Tyler is _so_ going to drag you into his stupid golf club,” Taeyong groans.

“Aren’t you in it, too?” Johnny inquires, eyebrows raised.

“How do you know _that_?” Taeyong shoots back, bewildered. 

Johnny chuckles. “Instagram,” he replies, amused, like it’s obvious that he would’ve seen it: the _one_ picture Taeyong took at a golf course that’s over two years old, the one where he’s wearing his hair at a questionable length and a tragic, too-large yellow polo borrowed from Tyler’s closet.

“I’m excited to get back,” Taeyong says. He finds that he truly means it. Training with Mitch and Dylan is fun but playing with his team, for his people, in the _home_ he’s made for himself (and for himself-and-Johnny) is so much better. 

“Is there still a place for me in your house?” Johnny asks, petting his dog absentmindedly. She seems happy to take the affection— _reminds me of, well,_ me, Taeyong thinks. He _really_ should stop comparing himself to a lap dog.

Taeyong coughs once, hoping to clear his throat. “For as long as you need one,” he replies, grinning despite himself. 

“Hope you don’t change your mind when Beauty starts shedding,” Johnny says. Beauty yips, shaking her fluffy white head before scrambling to escape her owner’s hold. Taeyong watches, mesmerized, as Johnny laughs and shifts, pushing the phone to the side for a moment to let his dog onto the ground. The angle allows Taeyong to see the _ridiculously tight_ shorts Johnny is wearing.

“I still can’t believe _that’s_ what you named your dog,” Taeyong says, voice squeaky as Johnny takes his sweet time re-accommodating himself in bed. Before Johnny can complain, he adds, “I won’t mind, I love dogs.” That much is true. If it were up to him, he’d take Ruby back home, too, but she’s old now and his mom has grown too attached to her for Taeyong to not feel bad about even considering moving her to Dallas. 

“Thank you so much,” Johnny says. It sounds genuine. His face takes up most of the screen now. Taeyong thinks about how much he wants to kiss the tip of Johnny’s nose. “You know how real estate is—” Johnny continues. Taeyong stifles a laugh.

“A _nightmare_ ,” Taeyong agrees, ignoring the fact that he knows from firsthand experience just how easy it is to let the right people in the organization handle getting the right numbers for the right places. They had helped him get a house so fucking _fast_ when he came back for a second season after he was told the team wanted to go forward with him for a long time.

“Totally,” Johnny says, pretending to be annoyed. It’s amazing how Taeyong can read Johnny’s embarrassment even through a small screen. It fills him with a kind of joy he’s never experienced before—something he’s not sure he can put into words. Before Taeyong can come up with a quip to tease him, Johnny adds, “I hung out with Jae and Doyoung recently and you won’t _believe_ what fucking happened.” The change of topic is obvious but Taeyong is too excited at the prospect of watching Johnny tell him a story to call him out on it.

“Tell me,” Taeyong says, slowly lowering himself onto the bed. Unlike Johnny, he keeps the camera on his face because he’s not trying to give the other man a heart attack—though he doubts his faded _Mighty Ducks_ t-shirt would have the same effect as Johnny’s tiny shorts.

Taeyong finds himself a little distracted while Johnny tells the story of how he caught the two losers making out in the bathroom of a seedy bar and how he’s forever scarred _and_ how he managed to lose two hundred bucks for getting too cocky while playing pool. 

It’s not that Taeyong’s not listening, it’s not like he’s not interested. There’s just something incredibly distracting about Johnny today, something in the way he laughs and how it makes Taeyong’s stomach ache in the most wonderful way. Something has changed over the last couple of months for the better and Taeyong can no longer pretend he doesn’t want Johnny with every single bone in his body.

For now, he settles for watching Johnny chatter animatedly from hundreds of miles away; lets himself enjoy the sweet cadence of Johnny’s voice, enjoy the warmth of the love he feels for Johnny.

## .

## .

## .

## .

## 03\. a place for you to love me

The sun shines brightly through the curtains he forgot to close the day before, effectively waking Taeyong from what was previously a very comfortable sleep. He groans and quickly shuts his eyes tight. 

Taeyong curses the fact that he was too preoccupied with Johnny’s return home to do something as routine as closing the curtains. He lazily stretches his arms over his head, groaning as his muscles protest spending the night on the couch. It didn’t matter how much money he had splurged on it, it still wasn’t the same as sleeping in his own bed.

Something happens when he attempts to shift away from the suffocating blanket that he doesn’t remember pulling over his legs.

Johnny—whose head was apparently in Taeyong’s _lap_ , because _of course_ —wakes up.

 _Fuck_ , Taeyong thinks, torn between pushing away the offender responsible for making him sweat through his clothes or remaining still and pretending to sleep so Johnny can go back to sleep, too.

“Good morning,” Johnny’s voice rumbles, cheek smushed against Taeyong’s legs in a way that surely can’t be comfortable. Taeyong pats himself on the back internally for buying a couch with a sectional. He squints as he turns to look at Taeyong, hair still fluffy from the post-flight shower he took immediately upon arriving from the airport.

“Morning,” Taeyong replies, unable to hide the smile that graces his lips. His hand tentatively reaches forward and tangles in Johnny’s hair for a moment, then gently combs it out with his fingers. The icky feeling from being too warm gets replaced with another kind of warmth. “Your hair is a mess,” he adds, delighted by the way Johnny _whines_ at his touch, shutting his eyes tightly.

“That’s _your_ fault,” Johnny says, index finger digging into Taeyong’s side.

“I plead the fifth,” Taeyong shoots back, squirming in place. Johnny’s booming laughter makes him laugh, too.

“Johnny,” Taeyong starts, voice gentle. _I love you_ , he thinks, watching Johnny open only one eye in direct refusal to move from the place on Taeyong’s lap he has claimed as his own. _I love you,_ he thinks. “You need to get up and feed Beauty,” he says, instead.

“Later,” Johnny mumbles, _snuggling_ up to Taeyong. Suddenly Taeyong is grateful for the light blue blanket acting as a barrier between their bodies.

“ _Go,_ big boy,” Taeyong insists, tugging on Johnny’s hair slightly until the latter makes a displeased noise and starts to get up.

“You are mean, captain,” Johnny says, but gets up in a quick motion so as not to drag out what he has to do for longer than necessary.

“ _Alternate_ ,” Taeyong clarifies with a delighted smile that Johnny mirrors. “We can go and have brunch in this new place that opened up?” Taeyong suggests, a little apologetic. 

“It’s a date,” Johnny says cheekily, winking and shooting finger guns at Taeyong before he disappears towards the kitchen, no doubt looking for the dog food. In the distance, Taeyong hears Beauty’s tiny paws rush towards the kitchen after hearing Johnny’s call for her.

It kinda _is_ a date as far as Taeyong is concerned. But not really.

Taeyong wants to find the right moment—even if he’s not sure as to _what_ would make it right.

So, in the meantime, he once again carves out a place in their home for Johnny’s presence; welcomes it in a way he never thought he’d be able to. He adds the adorable fluff ball that Johnny absolutely dotes on to his own routine; even starts doting on her himself, to no one’s surprise. And, well, if he leans confidently against Johnny’s side now—if he seeks out the friendly touches that Johnny is such a fan of—Taeyong is only human, after all. 

Even _he_ can’t resist Johnny’s gravitational pull.

This time around, he’s not even sure he _wants_ to.

* * *

The right moment is apparently a couple of days _just_ before pre-season starts.

Taeyong has only been back in Dallas for a week—only a _week_ to figure out how to live with Johnny and his feelings _for_ Johnny at the same time—when it happens.

Here’s how it starts: in utterly predictable Seguin style, Tyler quickly includes Johnny into the golf-playing cult he seems hell-bent on leading despite being far from a good player himself. He keeps inviting Taeyong, too, and even though Taeyong has zero interest in or knowledge of the sport, he’s always excited to drive a golf cart around and drink the complimentary champagne from the club house while the other guys play.

“Tyler Seguin’s Great Golf Day” includes roping Jamie, Esa, Klinger, Alex, Taeyong, and now Johnny into spending a full day on a golf course and then to a cookout at Tyler’s house where they drink copious amounts of beer and Alex pretends he’s the chef and overcooks steaks on Tyler’s ridiculously fancy grill. 

Taeyong spends a couple of hours subtly checking out Johnny’s, well, _everything_ in that ridiculous golf outfit of his; a couple more being endeared by how much Johnny gets into the whole _golf_ thing, even going so far as to try to teach (keyword: _try)_ Taeyong how to properly swing; and a final few eating one too many steaks and drinking enough beer to lull himself into a lazy daze right alongside his teammates.

Most of them sit on the deck right by the grill, except for Esa and Klinger, who lay on the lawn to let Tyler’s dogs slobber all over them. They occasionally join the conversation but mostly just listen to the low music that plays over Tyler’s speakers. Taeyong sits cross legged, an empty bottle of water squashed under his right leg. Low alcohol tolerance becomes a curse and a prison when he's surrounded by men who can drink twice Taeyong’s body weight without feeling a thing. Tyler sits to his right; across the deck Jamie giggles his way through a poor joke, trying to get everyone to follow along and failing impressively, even for Jamie; and Johnny—

Johnny sits right in front of him, impossibly long legs stretched out so that when he shifts, the soles of his feet graze Taeyong’s crossed legs because he’s _gross_ and he’s decided to take off his sandals for “maximum comfort”. 

Taeyong doesn't know what burns more: Johnny’s eyes, glinting like melted honey, or his own skin, alight even from the casual contact. 

“I'm gonna get more water,” Taeyong croaks, throat dry, after realizing he just missed a sizable chunk of the conversation going around him because he was focused on trying to predict Johnny’s next move and trying to make out his features in the poor lighting to pay attention.

“I'll go with you,” Johnny says despite the fact that he hasn’t had anything to drink for the past hour. Taeyong _swears_ he sees Tyler smirk out of the corner of his eye and chooses to log it away as a trick of the dim light.

He doesn't need to look back to know Johnny is following him. He's close, close enough for Taeyong's heart to hammer against his chest at the thought of having a wall between themselves and the eyes of the world. 

Close enough.

Not as close as Taeyong wants him to be.

When Johnny shuts the patio door behind them, Taeyong takes a breath, paces his steps towards the fridge to the thrumming of his veins, and lets Johnny's voice—the soft one, the one reserved for Taeyong, the one he never wanted to learn enough to catalogue—wash over him like a gentle wave, only remembering at the last moment to laugh at the jab at Alex's burnt food.

Grabbing a single bottle of cold water shouldn’t be a difficult task but as Taeyong ponders the contents of Tyler's fridge—and the disturbing lack of actual food in it—he lingers to let the cool calm him down a little. Behind him, Johnny's chatter dies.

He closes his eyes, counting to three as he pushes the door closed, squares his shoulders, and turns around, bottle in hand.

He does not expect Johnny to be standing right _there_ , eyes determined and bright with intent, body angled in a way that makes Taeyong yearn to be fully surrounded by him so strongly that it roots him in place, eyes wide open.

"Do you… want water, too?" he asks. This is one of the times that he's grateful for his mouth going faster than his brain.

Johnny smiles, all white teeth and gums, and shakes his head. Even in this unfamiliar kitchen, even in a stupid flamingo-pink polo and palm tree patterned swim trunks, he’s still the most beautiful person Taeyong has ever seen. He looks amazing, like everything Taeyong has ever wanted, like the only person Taeyong will ever want.

"Taeyong," Johnny says, reverent. Taeyong remains frozen for a beat as Johnny gently removes the bottle of water from his hands and chucks it with impressive accuracy towards the kitchen island. Once his hands are free, Johnny doesn't hesitate to take Taeyong's hands in his even though Taeyong can feel the subtle way they shake.

He finds it both comforting and heartbreaking when he notices his own hands shaking as well. In that touch—in Taeyong allowing Johnny to touch him not because his fear has gone but _in spite_ of that fear—he feels every nerve in his body settle, waiting.

Taeyong doesn't avoid Johnny's eyes. In fact, he secretly relishes that he has to look upwards to meet Johnny’s gaze and enjoys the warmth that gaze exudes. He waits with bated breath, entranced as Johnny leans slightly forward before speaking again.

"Tell me I'm not reading this wrong," Johnny pleads with the air of a man whose life is on the line. In a way, it very much is. In their world, no amount of Pride tape and You Can Play nights can make up for the shit they've both heard growing up in locker rooms and on the rink. Right now, Johnny is brave in a way Taeyong never thought he could be.

It makes Taeyong feel brave, too. 

Taeyong looks at Johnny and finds everything he cares about there. He squeezes Johnny's hands and shakes his head, smiling timidly as he feels the tips of his ears turn red. 

Johnny leans in and Taeyong meets him halfway, heart pounding in his ears.

Chest to chest, jittery and free, hands trapped between their bodies impractically, Johnny-and-Taeyong kiss for the first time. A hesitant press of lips against lips, testing, lips that find what they’re looking for and settle into a rhythm, lips gentle in their movement, relishing the sweetness of it all.

Time suspends as they learn each other in a new way. The one kiss turns into two, three, four, into roaming hands that only stop when breathing becomes necessary—

“Johnny,” Taeyong exhales, fingers now clinging to the fabric of Johnny’s polo. Every emotion feels amplified when Johnny's hands settle comfortably on his hips.

“I've wanted to do that for so long,” says Johnny, moving to press their foreheads together—as if Taeyong’s heart needed more motivation to skip a beat, as if his lips needed more motivation to curl up in a bittersweet little grin.

“I’m sorry,” Taeyong replies, trying his best to meet Johnny’s eyes. _We could've been happier, could've been doing this sooner,_ he thinks, but says nothing else, afraid to break this bubble he doesn't yet want to abandon.

“It's okay,” Johnny states, simply, like it really is okay. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s okay for things to take time, for things to fall before they can happen, for distance and growth and discovery.

Time is necessary. Johnny, however, doesn't waste a single second before smiling at Taeyong, wide and bright—the one smile that makes Taeyong feel like he’s flying, the one smile that gets him to automatically shift from a grimace to a full blown smile. Taeyong feels frozen in time, Taeyong feels reckless, Taeyong feels _love_ , _loved_ unspoken and yet so loud.

In the background, he hears the chatter and low music streaming into the house from the backyard; feels the sweat clinging to his skin under his patterned shirt. 

None of that matters for now.

He leans in, releasing Johnny’s shirt to hold Johnny’s face with his hands, bringing him down until Taeyong can convey everything in one single kiss, into the press of their bodies as they fit like puzzle pieces. His lips are insistent against Johnny’s mouth and the way Johnny yields oh-so-easily and lets him _take_ makes Taeyong _burn._

It’s like a switch has been flipped. The tenderness doesn’t disappear—and for a moment his brain goes off on a tangent about how that’s basically the foundation of his relationship with Johnny—but desire takes over for long enough that when they part they are a breathless mess, hair mussed, clothes rumpled.

“How bad will it be if we just leave?” Johnny pants, his hands holding onto Taeyong’s hips. Taeyong feels like he’s on top of the world watching the mischievous smile Johnny directs his way.

“They’re all drunk, they won't care,” Taeyong replies boldly, fingers reaching up to smooth his own hair. Then, softer—and a little shaky—he pats Johnny’s hair down, too. He adds, “I think Tyler knows,” because if there’s anything that man is good at it’s playing the dumb jock image while knowing a whole lot more than he lets on.

Johnny pauses, then promptly bursts into laughter. “Dude, he's with Jamie,” he wheezes. He keeps laughing even as Taeyong’s whole face goes red.

In hindsight, that would explain the mysterious bruises on Tyler’s legs that don’t quite make sense. And just how much those dogs _love_ Jamie.

“I've changed my mind, I’m not going anywhere with you,” Taeyong says, giddy with an odd surge of confidence as he smacks Johnny’s shoulder and moves out of reach—but Johnny is _fast_ , and before he realizes it, Taeyong is being pinned to the counter, body against Johnny from head to toe, head swimming. His fingers search up Johnny’s arms to hold onto his biceps.

Johnny smiles, a little bit cocky like he knows just how much Taeyong doesn’t want to let go. Taeyong figures it’s okay to let it go to Johnny’s head for a little while. “I thought you _knew_ —” Johnny starts, looking like he wants to laugh again.

“I _lived_ with him and they _never_ —” Taeyong cuts him off, slapping Johnny’s pec, effectively sending the other man into yet another fit of laughter. _It says a lot about how I feel for him_ , Taeyong thinks, _if I’m_ endeared _by him laughing at me_.

“He threw a thinly veiled threat my way the time we roomed—you know, before we started asking to be placed together on all the road trips—and then proceeded to tell me we had to switch rooms because Jamie was, uh—actually I don't think I want to repeat that,” Johnny says in between pressing short kisses to Taeyong’s forehead that render him stunned and a little useless, because of _course_ Johnny is just that casual with physical affection. Of _course_ he’s every single quality Taeyong has always wanted in a partner, even those he only allowed himself to think about in an abstract way and far removed from the physicality of his yearning.

“But _why_ did he even do that?” Taeyong asks, tilting his head to the side. He reaches up to gently caress Johnny’s cheek, enjoying the recently-shaved smoothness of his skin. He allows his hand to drift back to Johnny’s chest and listens to the catch of Johnny’s breath, feeling his own catch a little, too, as Johnny looks pensive for a moment.

“I think he just realized how I looked at you and put two and two together,” Johnny replies, matter of fact. Taeyong’s heartbeat is so loud he can feel it in his whole body.

“Woah, that’s—a lot.” Taeyong is stunned into silence. It takes a moment for him to gather himself. Actually—closer to several moments. In the meantime, he’s content to be held by Johnny. He lets his hands creep gently upwards to settle on the nape of Johnny’s neck.

“So—home?” Johnny asks. His face is filled with hope, so much so that Taeyong swallows the terror that threatens to build in his throat and decides to jump: no cord, no parachute, no safety net.

“Home,” he nods, resolute, and it's amazing, really, to see how the ground doesn't swallow him whole, how lighting doesn't strike, how the world keeps on moving.

**Author's Note:**

> as promised, here are the (important-ish) mentioned hockey players: [mitch](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/MindlessFairAmericangoldfinch-size_restricted.gif)(ft connor) [tyler and jamie](https://youtu.be/c3-yJ9PNn8A) (aka they are bfs your honor) [klinger (with esa on his right side)](https://66.media.tumblr.com/908ca1096a85d7b28c8ac1e17f6a29b4/7b013a267640a764-d0/s540x810/d65440a67eb97ce973787737747d20951c1eed6b.gifv) [miro](https://www.instagram.com/p/BrA7jgwHCCC/?igshid=1jkk1t37bg27h) [alex (rads)](https://www.instagram.com/p/B3YYu49lBIr/?igshid=13vcud1cu1az5) and [big ben](https://lastwordonhockey.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/11/2017/09/849872392.jpg)
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 
> 
> you can find me [here](https://twitter.com/florulentae), come chat with me about this story and the (hopefully) many more to come in this verse!


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